


Take my pure (wash it all away 'til I'm cured)

by orphan_account



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Self-Hatred, fucked up kinda, peeta is dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:41:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25281784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Haymitch curses under his breath, becausePeetashould have lived andheshould've been the one to save the girl on fire. But the boy's dead, and he can look around all he wants but there's no one there but him.
Relationships: Haymitch Abernathy & Katniss Everdeen, Haymitch Abernathy/Katniss Everdeen
Comments: 5
Kudos: 59





	Take my pure (wash it all away 'til I'm cured)

**Author's Note:**

> One seating at Starbucks. I really do hate myself.

Everdeen has the not-quite-dead stare, the cold-anger look as she lets the arrow fly, and it doesn't miss its target. It's only when Peeta lets his dagger drop when the girl realizes he hadn't been trying to stab her, and that the arrow hadn't missed its target, and that-

Peeta is going to die.

Haymitch watches, because he can do nothing else, and hears the cannon fire as he slugs his whiskey down. He had had hopes, of course, with their plan with the berries, but some part of him is aware that he had always known it would be the girl who survived.

Peeta loves- _loved_ the girl. Everdeen did not.

He flips off the cameras shoved into his face and staggers back to his room, knowing of the endless press coverage he is about to face, deciding it would be better if he was drunk for the entirety of it. He doesn't want to think about anything else, doesn't want to think about the girl's devastated eyes, how his 16-year-old self must have had the same look, and-

He doesn't think. He drinks. The alcohol burns all the way down his throat to his lungs.

* * *

Caesar Flickerman, with his tight face and elastic ponytail, plays the clip of her killing Peeta as if it is some piece of love scandal instead of murder on national television. The girl's face is stormy throughout the entire interview, not even bothering to smile and nod, and Flickerman, ever the gentleman, plays it off as she is traumatized and broken by her loss.

She locks herself away in her room when it is over. Haymitch hesitates in front of the door, raising a hand to knock, but pulls it down after a moment. He doesn't do _feelings_. And he's half-sure that she would prefer to be left alone.

He walks away, and a bottle finds itself in his hands.

* * *

She breaks down in the train, and a part of him is glad that at least it happened out of the capitol, with no one to see them.

A bigger part of him is irritated that it _happened_ , and that he is the one stuck with her.

He watches as she throws everything breakable against the walls, broken shards of glass showering down in front of them. A cup goes, then a dish, then another dish, and she grabs a knife and stares at it.

She has that look again. The not-quite-dead stare, the cold-anger look.

Something lurches inside his stomach and he feels like he's going to throw up, but he doesn't. Instead he grabs her wrist before she can drive it down, and glares at her.

"What the fuck are you _doing_ ," he hisses, and she looks at him, eyes half-way dead. There used to be a spark there. She used to be the girl on fire, the Mockingjay.

And now she's just a broken kid, someone that needs saving.

He curses under his breath, because _Peeta_ should have lived and _he_ should've been the one to save her. But the boy's dead, and he can look around all he wants but there's no one but him.

"What do you care?" Everdeen spits, trying to tug her hand away. He doesn't let go.

"They'll kill your family," he says. _Like they did to mine._ The words go unsaid, but the girl can hear it in the silence. She looks away, and the knife clatters to the ground.

He wants to say something reassuring, something hopeful, _you'll cope,_ or worse, _it'll get better,_ but he can't bring himself to lie to her. He searches for words in his brain, and comes up with nothing.

His life is a perfect example of how the games stay with you. He'd coped by drinking himself to oblivion, waking at sunset, waiting for the day his liver gives out. He's 41-fucking-years-old and he's done nothing with his life. No, his life had ended the day he won the games.

He can't exactly say _that_ to the girl. He doesn't want this to be her life.

But then, neither of them have a choice.

He awkwardly pets her shoulder, because he doesn't know what else to do, and releases her wrist. She looks at him, and he shrugs to himself before turning away.

"We arrive in two hours," he throws over his shoulder, hoping that the reminder of home would be enough to keep her from doing anything stupid. Silence answers him, and he wanders off in search for more whiskey.

* * *

Time goes too fast in the Victor's Village, both of them cooped up in their own houses, and it feels like he's barely been able to breathe before they have to get on the train again.

They had only met one time during the months, although they're neighbors and live right next to each other. She had turned up on his doorsteps, eyes red, barging in when he opened the door. She had picked up a bottle from the kitchen counter, hesitated, then picked up one more and left, all the while silent except for the occasional hitches of breath.

She didn't get along with her mother, he knows. They screamed at each other constantly, and kept him awake. He sometimes wanted to go over and scream back at them, but didn't, because he was too drunk and couldn't walk without falling over.

And when they meet at the train station for the Victory tour, she ignores him, obviously hung over. It's weird to not be the only one thrown disapproving looks by Effie. They both ignore her, of course, and he pretends to ignore the girl as well.

But when she's near sharp objects, he makes a point to cross his arms and stare.

* * *

"How's the boyfriend, sweetheart?" He slurs, halfway onto district 10, and she gives him a blank stare, bags underneath her eyes. She doesn't sleep well. She screams, in her sleep, and keeps making a guest appearance in his dreams.

"What are you talking about?" She asks back, picking at the mashed potatoes on her plate. She doesn't eat well also, growing uncomfortably thin every day. Effie tries to get her to eat by piling food on their table, but she comically misses the girl's taste. Even _he_ knows that she doesn't like seafood.

"Your little _cousin/boyfriend_ ," he says, and laughs at the joke like it's funny. The girl's expression turns from confused to anger, and glares at him.

"He's not my boyfriend," she retorts. Like everyone in district 12's not aware of their little hunting picnics. He rolls his eyes, and is confused when the girl glares harder. "Gale's never been my boyfriend," she says loudly, and slams her spoon down on the table. "Don't act like you know what you're fucking talking about."

She leaves the room, and Effie looks at him like he's committed a felony instead of just asking the girl about her love life. He's horribly confused but he just shrugs, turns his attention back to his food and takes a bite of the apple pie and Effie hisses at him.

"Go _apologize_ , you dirtbag!"

He gapes at her. "What?"

"She's clearly upset! And you should've never-" Effie starts to give him an annoying speech which he tries to filter out, but the alcohol can only do so much, and he finally just wants to leave the room as well.

So he growls "Fine," and lurches out.

He has no idea where the girl has gone, and has no plan to try to find her, but it's just his luck that he stumbles across her in front of the bathroom. He almost trips over her, curses a streak, and stares.

"Why are you-"

She shoots to her feet, but he can swear she had been sleeping, her eyes closed. The girl had been dozing on the ground, curled up, in front of a bathroom. He can _not_ understand traumatized teenagers.

"Don't you have a _room,_ sweetheart?" He demands, and watches the girl shuffle back.

"I just sat down for a moment," she snaps back, and turns away, but he catches the glimmer in her eyes and feels kind of horrible. So he grits his teeth, says "Wait, wait."

She turns back around, trying to hide the vulnerability with anger. " _What_?"

"I'm s-" He inhales, sharply. "I'm sorry. For asking."

She looks at him, and he can see her trying to gauge if he's sincere. "It's fine," she answers stiffly after a moment, and looks at him some more, and turns away.

The pair of them, emotionally impaired.

He watches her go.

* * *

A dulled scream wakes him, and he sits up with a jolt, heart suddenly racing. It takes a moment for him to realize he's not in the games, he's not at his family's funeral, he's not killing Everdeen, and it's just _her_. Having a nightmare.

He sits there for a moment before sliding out of his bed, snagging his shirt on the bedside table and throwing it on, staggering out his room. He hesitates in front of her room, hand at the doorknob, but this time he takes the leap.

He opens the door.

She's thrashing, sweat clinging to her clothes as she sleeps fitfully, mumbling words under her breath. He hears _Peeta_ and _Rue,_ a muffled shout, and feels as if he is intruding. So he clenches his jaw, shakes her shoulder roughly.

"Sweethe- _Everdeen_ ," he says. She is awake in an instant, a fist knocking into his face, and he stumbles back.

"Ow," he lets out, rubbing his cheek. She stares at him, eyes wild, and it takes a few more seconds for her to realize the same things he'd realized, when he had woken up to her scream.

Their similarities comforts and scares him at the same time.

"Sorry," she mutters, drawing her covers away, and narrows his eyes at him. "What are you doing up?"

"Sweetheart, you woke up the entire _train_." he answers, drawling sarcastically. The girl looks faintly embarrassed, then indignant, brushing her hair away from her face.

"Well, go back to sleep then." She says, voice resentful. "Don't let me keep you up."

He looks at her, and some part of him sighs because he had wanted to _help_ , and as always managed to fuck it up. She turns on the lamp, starting to sit up with a resolute set in her jaw, and he lets out a breath.

"You should sleep."

"I can't," she says, like he's an idiot.

"How did you sleep back home?" He tries instead, and she shrugs a little, not looking at him.

"Prim always sneaked into my bed. I wasn't alone."

He stands there for a moment, and eyes the chair next to the bed. He sighs again, annoyed by what he's going to say. Goddammit, he needs a drink.

"I'll stay, then." He says, tiredly. She looks startled. He drops into the chair, turns the light off with a _click_. "Go back to sleep, sweetheart." The word comes out a little less sarcastic and more like an endearment, and it surprises him.

She watches him, sitting in the dark, silent.

Then she shifts back under the covers, and closes her eyes.

"Thank you," he hears her whisper, just quiet enough for him to doubt whether he had heard it or not. She sounds so young, without all that anger and resentment, and it makes him feel irrevocably sad.

How to be sixteen and to be made into a killer. How to be sixteen and to be hating herself for being a survivor.

He thinks too much about it, before closing his eyes himself and drifting back to sleep.

* * *

The next morning they pretend nothing's different, and they leave for breakfast separately. And nothing _is_ different, except for her looking slightly more awake when giving her speech at district 8. He watches her dutifully read her memorized speech, and drinks his wine.

That night he's woken again, not by a scream but someone crawling into his bed. He immediately grabs the knife beneath his pillow-a habit, impossible to break-, and feels his heart stop when he sees it's the girl.

"Jesus," he says, impossibly relieved that he hadn't swung first, and impossibly angry that she didn't even wake him up before sneaking under his covers. "What the fu-"

"Can't sleep," she mumbles into his pillow, their sides touching. She steals the blanket that he had thrown off to the side, snuggles into it, and seems to fall asleep almost immediately.

He stares at her, incredulous. Their arms are brushing together, her head lying next to his shoulder, her feet against his shin. He really doesn't know what to do but he's definitely sure this is not appropriate, to be sleeping in the same bed with his teenage mentee, but then, he's never exactly _done_ appropriate.

He lowers his head on his pillow, laying the dagger on the bedside table, and wills himself to sleep.

It takes longer than he'd admit.

* * *

All they way through district 8 to district 2, he finds the girl in his bed every night.

They don't do anything else than just sleep, but it still bothers him every time their bodies touch and their skin brush together, because it just feels _wrong_ to be doing so. Leaving the room in the morning with an interval between them further reinforces the feeling, because if he was shameless about what he was allowing, he wouldn't wait a few minutes after she leaves to exit himself.

But it seems to help her sleep, and she begins to eat more, and he just drinks away his moral conflict, scoffing at himself. Since when does he care about doing the right thing? Since when does he care about _morality_?

He gets drunk, and the drunker he gets it's easier not to think too much, so he keeps getting drunk.

Until, well, the night they leave from district 2.

* * *

He wakes, breathing harshly, eyes wide and mouthing swears. He immediately knows he's hard, a tent in his pants, and tries to discreetly turn his lower body away from the girl.

She shifts, but doesn't wake. He thanks heavens.

The dream plays over in his head and he muffles a groan, more aroused than he's been in months, and he slides off the bed, stumbles into the bathroom. He curses and turns on the shower, jerks himself off in a frenzy, stiffing a grunt as he came.

His breath shudders as he rides out his high. And then as soon as he regains his common sense, the thoughts come rushing in, and he feels fucking disgusted at himself, at the dream, and can't fucking believe that he had a wet dream about-

He's an old creep; he's fucking revolted. He feels the self-hatred grow as his mind refuses to think about something other than the girl's hands on him, her mouth, sliding inside-

Fucking hell. Fucking, _fucking_ hell.

He cleans himself off with a shaking hand, nauseated, and slumps against the door. He can't go back out there and lie down on the bed with the girl in it, he just _can't._ He curses, again and again, until the words drown out the disgust, and he draws in a sharp breath.

He was going to go out there, and he was going to leave, and he was going to go to Everdeen's room and _not think about this._

He does exactly so, except he can't stop thinking about it, so he trudges to the kitchens and drinks until he can't form a single coherent thought.

* * *

She asks him why he left, and he pretends he can't hear her, insulting her snoring instead. Then they bicker, and she stomps away.

At night he doesn't sleep, and he _especially_ doesn't go to his own room.

* * *

The banquet at the capitol at the end of the tour is when she pounces on him, and it had to be when he's even drunker than usual. He's at the corner of the room, alone, just pouring liquid inside his mouth, and she stalks toward him, arms crossed.

"Why are you avoiding me?"

"Don't know what you're talking about, sweetheart," he slurs, barely conscious. She glares.

"Don't lie to me," she accuses. "You're not sleeping with me."

He laughs, and she blushes when she realizes what she'd said. "Not like _that_ ," she makes a face, although her cheeks are red. It's cute, how she's an bloody killer but a child at everything else. The thought makes him fucking hate himself, and he tries to turn away, but she grabs his arm, spinning him back around.

Her palm is warm against his arm, and he scowls darkly. "What, Everdeen?"

"You didn't answer my question." She says, stubborn as hell.

He laughs again, but this time, it's a more threatening sound and she flinches, still not letting his arm go. He steps forwards, towering over her.

"Why am I not sleeping with you?" He says sarcastically. Her eyes narrow and suddenly doubt seeps into his thoughts because it feels like she can just _read_ his fucking mind. He blinks, wrenches his arm away from her.

"I can't sleep," he echoes her words back at her, doesn't look at her eyes because he's abruptly terrified of her, terrified of her looks and her touches and what she can _do_ , and what he can do to _her_ , and because he's horrified by himself and the things he's capable of.

He hates what his life has become, of this tiptoeing between the right and the wrong, the good and the bad, and fucking despises his mind. And the girl is just standing there, looking at him like she's cracked open his skull and figured him out. As if she knows who he is, as if she knows the demons under his bed and that _she_ scares him more than the capitol, Snow, and the entirety of Panem.

"Oh," she says, and it's the tipping point for him. He yanks his gaze away, and staggers away in search for another drink.

* * *

The Tour's over, and they're back on the fucking train, and they're going home.

And they're stuck with each other.

He stays locked in his room, and she does whatever she does when she's alone, and they don't talk. He purposely eats late so he doesn't run into her, and goddammit he feels fucking stupid, but he doesn't think he can handle the silence. Or, worse, her trying to talk to him.

And for once she's pliant, and avoids him back. It's a fucking relief.

As soon as they get back to district 12 he can avoid her more effectively, staying indoors all day, every day, and he's almost looking forward to it. But then, there is the next year of the games, but he's sure he can get over this in a few months. It's just lust, he's sure. If he jacks off whenever he feels like it, he won't keep thinking about her.

Alcohol and masturbation, he decides, will be enough.

* * *

He's asleep when someone sits on him, and he wakes with a start, his heart jumping into his throat as he opens his eyes and-

It's Everdeen, looking down at him, lips parted. The smell of whiskey hits him and he realizes she's drunk. She's drunker than a squirrel. Wait, was it a skunk? He opens his mouth to tell her _what the fuck_ when she leans down and kisses him, their teeth knocking together.

He's frozen, the girl's lips moving against his softly, trying to figure what the fuck was happening. She was kissing him. She was fucking _kissing_ him, and-

He shoves her away, rolling out from beneath her. "You're drunk," he says loudly, heart thumping, as he sits up and tries to slow down his breathing.

"So what?" She murmurs, and tries to kiss him again. She misses her target, ends up against his neck, and he shudders as she licks him. It's so very distracting him from the fact that this is _wrong_ and she's going to wake up tomorrow and fucking _hate_ him, and he grips her arm and pushes her back.

"Go to your room," he tries to sound strict and angry, but it comes out weak and breathy, and she laughs at him instead.

"You're not my dad," she says.

"I'm old enough to be," he retorts, tries to push her off the bed, but she refuses to bulk.

"I don't care," she stares defiantly at him. "I want this. You do too."

"No I don't," he says, but who was he fucking kidding? She apparently thinks the same thing because she slowly inches forwards, until her hand is on his chest and their knees are overlapping, and she's practically in his lap.

"Everdeen," he says, a warning, and she breathes against his jaw.

"Abernathy," she says back, as if this is some fucking game, and presses her lips against his.

It's a moment before he kisses her back, because he can't fucking think straight when he's doing this and consequences are things that he never really did care about. It's too easy to ignore the rest of the world when he's gripping her hair, focusing on drawing the small noises she makes when their tongues brush together.

He pulls her closer, his chest against hers, cupping the back of her head. His tongue runs against her teeth, tasting the whiskey, and she moans. The sound goes straight to his cock and he hardens, and suddenly they're tumbling, her on top of him, pulling off their shirts and skin everywhere.

He gets her off with his fingers, and when she fumbles for his belt he pushes her away because he is an old creep but not _that_ dirty, and when she hates him next morning he doesn't want this to be her first memory of sex.

And she falls asleep, soon after that, like nothing happened. But too much happened for him to sleep and he just tucks her against his chest and stares up at the ceiling, pretending nothing has changed.

But he can't. Everything has changed, as he escapes to the bathroom.

* * *

The girl's gone when he wakes, and the bed-sheets smell like her. He breathes in it for a few moments before raising his body, suddenly too awake as he washes his face, replays his memories.

Fucking, fucking hell. That's all he can think. Fucking, fucking hell.

He imagines Effie's face if she finds out what happened, and then her mother's face. It makes him want to fucking throw himself off the train and he groans, slamming a hand against the wall.

But he can't hide in his room forever, and after lunch they're arriving at the train station, so he trudges out of the room after breathing in deeply. Yes, yesterday was one of the worst things he had done, but no, it wasn't the single worst thing.

He could live with it. He could live with her hating him.

He eats brunch alone, washing it down with gin and tonic. He returns to his room, spends another few hours hating himself, and when the train starts to slow down he slowly walks to the deck.

The girl is waiting for him.

They don't say anything, don't acknowledge that anything happened, just stand side by side, the train rumbling to a stop. He can see the forest and the outskirts of town through the glass window, as Seam draws near. The sun shines in the sky, a ball of fire, too bright to look at, and she looks at him with a spark in her not-quite-dead eyes.

"Do you regret it?" She asks, and he can laugh, because of course he does. He regrets it with every fiber of his being, because he knows she hates him and-

But, if she didn't?

"Do you?" He asks back, and her gaze pierces through him.

"No," she says determined as the moment she killed the tribute from 1 that stabbed her little friend. As determined as she had been, when she let that arrow fly, killing Peeta. "I don't."

She grips his hand, head held straight, and he knows she's going to be the end of him.


End file.
